Somebody

-Ave Maria-

We keep hoping that someone will come and take us away from this awful place.

It’s been twelve years by my calculations, since we died.

We think we are in purgatory, though we know we can not be. We have thought maybe we are in hell. Then again, we have never done anything to go to hell. We have always been so good. We did schoolwork and house chores and we always listened to mommy, just as Father had said. It hurts to think like that, to think about Father. We used to enjoy mass. We knew when we did good deeds, good would await us. Now, what is good? Haven’t we done all the good things we were supposed to do? We must not think like that. In purgatory you can not think like that. What if we are already in hell?

-gratia plena-

It hurts. There is a cool heat that pierces the skin. It feels as if it has gone all the way through. Sometimes it feels as if there is no skin. It makes me cry, but I cannot feel the tears. I feel it until I can feel nothing anymore. Then I dream. When I awake it always returns, the pain. I cannot get away from it. I cannot even see it. I am just here in pain, crying without a sound, without a tear, crying in my emptiness. Should someone not help me? Father, please help me? Is there no way away from here? Just when I can take no more, again, I get to dream. I love to dream. It is so much better there.

I can’t see faces, but these people, they seem so familiar. There is a woman. She is so graceful, she is tall and fearless, and a man short and cowardly but sweet and kind. There are two very young ones, full of life and mischief and a much older boy, who seems to be always worried about something. I see them in my dreams. I dream often. I lead a normal life with them. With them, I play the part of a beautiful young woman. If only I had continued to live, that woman may have been real, real, really me. Instead I said that thing, that very, very bad thing. I knew mommy would have hated that I had said it. I said it anyway. I could not take it anymore. They would not leave me alone.

-Dominus tecum-

We are in that room again. We are beginning to wonder why these men come. Sometimes there is a priest. Other times there is a wokka man. We know that’s what he is. He comes in here dressed in black with his head all tied and he takes that book and he chants. Then he sprinkles things and he chants some more. Sometimes he brings others. We hate him. He makes us feel so much pain. Not pain like in the emptiness, where there is despair and barenness. This pain is full. It builds up inside us and we can make the screams now. They are ear-shattering. We love those screams. Ha. We can sense the fear of all those in the room. That stupid wokka man! He is not afraid. We hate him. We want to kill him but they restrain us. We would rip his stupid fucking head off! He gets to us.

The priest is nicer. He reads me poetry. I like to hear the poetry.

AVE MARIA, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.

It makes them laugh. Oh dear. I had not wanted to talk about them. They. They. They are here too, always with me, torturing me. They say mean, awful things about the priest. Oh how I hate to hear them. It’s not true. He is such a nice man. I cannot see his face but if I could I know it would be a sweet gentle face. They say he likes to do terrible things, terrible things that I cannot talk about, when he is alone and when no one can see him. They have shown me. Oh dear. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, J- Oh dear. Why are they laughing so loudly? They are laughing so loudly. I can feel them doing it. Now quieter, and quieter, but they are still laughing. I hate it when I have nightmares. Where are the beautiful woman and her family?

-Sancta Maria-

I think it was because I said that awful thing. It is the last thing I can remember. I said that awful thing and then I died. Now I am in purgatory. The pain does not get easier to bear. I feel as though my skin is searing off. I cannot feel my skin. I cannot find the source of my pain. Sometimes, I feel as though little animals are crawling through my flesh and eating away at me. Ah, I have figured it out. I am in the ground of course. That explains the darkness and the cold and the animals. Oh dear. Was I buried alive? Am I alive? Oh yes, it was because I said the awful thing, all of this, because I said that thing.

They had been bothering me for some time before that, before I said that awful thing. They kept coming to me while I tried to sleep, while I was alone. I felt them on my bed, at my door. It was such a relief to have finally died. It was such a relief when I let them in, when they let me say that awful thing. Maybe I should not have said it. O, I know for a fact that I should never have said it.

-Mater Dei-

He is back that fucking man. Oh fucking die, already! Stop talking to us, you miserable fuck! We screamed it. It did not help. He dances and he chants and he addresses us. How dare he address us? Who does he think he is? We will not let him talk to us like this. We must stop him. We must stop this fucking wokka man. He will ruin everything. We have nothing on him. Dammit! Nothing. He will win. He will finally win, that fucking wokka man, and his friends.

 -ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae-

The light is bright in the small stuffy room. The sound of crickets seeps in from outside, a light welcome wind blows in through a window missing some panes. There are familiar, friendly faces, my parents and my siblings. There are also many people who I do not know. They greet me. They have so much advice for me. They all want to meet me, to speak to me. They are all touching me, pats on the back, handshakes. I am civil with them. They act odd. My hair is as wet as my dress. I may have been perspiring or swimming. Ha. I do not know which one, but the long white dress I am wearing is completely drenched. My feet are bare. I feel tall. Have I always been this tall? I see my reflection. It feels as if it is the first time I am seeing it. That is ridiculous. Isn’t it? My face is strong, it is beautiful, I think. Is it conceited to say that? Ha, I am so silly. A young man walks to me. He holds my hand and kisses my cheek. He asks how I am. My voice says I am free. Free? I feel so free. I cannot imagine from what.

-Amen-